


Paper Gold

by bunnystealsyourcarrots



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Is this helping me cope during troubling times- YES, Is this in poor taste- maybe, Smut, enemies to enemies who are horny, finger banging, graphic descriptions of fancy clothes, safe sex, tomione au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23299243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnystealsyourcarrots/pseuds/bunnystealsyourcarrots
Summary: A Tomione one-shot about a toilet paper fight that leads to other things...
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 56
Kudos: 132





	Paper Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Is this scenario recommended for horny Millennials? NO! 
> 
> Y'all need to seriously stay home for fuck's sake. I swear that there are no devilishly handsome Tom Riddles wandering around frozen food sections.

A bundled pack of mini carrots.

A banged-up box of protein bars.

A jar of spicy pickles.

A couple of puny chicken breasts that expired in two days.

It wasn't a heck of a haul by any means, but Hermione Granger clutched her grocery finds to her chest with a death grip. Her dark eyes shifting about the ransacked aisles for any hidden rolls of Andrex. That paper gold. A seven-ninety-nine item that had no business being sold out, but as this was her third grocery stop, the frazzled twenty-four year old held out little hope for a toilet paper miracle. 

The panicked prepper massers had obviously spoken. The doomsday moms demanding more toilet paper than they could ever use in six months with a continual case of the runs, and so, Hermione continued her quest. The chestnut-colored bun on top of her head bobbing as she looked high and low.

For not the first time, she eyed a roll of wax paper.

_ Desperate times... _

At the opposite end of the paper goods aisle, a handsome challenger suddenly emerged. He had perfectly tousled black hair, a good one foot of height on Hermione. A few years on her too with chiseled features that could cut a pair of panties off her body with just one dismissive nod of his stubble-covered chin, and he dressed like someone who refused to accept that the world was in a crisis and you could damn well wear pajamas to the market. The bra sellers of the world no doubt suffering, but fuck them on a good day too.

As expected, the shelves revealed a barren wasteland. A rolling tumbleweed wouldn't have looked out of place, but then Hermione's eyes widened once they’d shifted away from Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome. Oh sure, it had a rip down the side, but there sat one squashed package of toilet paper in the middle of the aisle. All of a sudden, the sounds of an old Celine Dion song pumping out of the horrid market store speakers ceased to exist.

Hermione dashed forward.

Her fingers curling around the roll to take it home where it belonged, and she let out a victorious giggle.

Finally, a whiff of something wonderful in her life had lifted her spirits. She felt a two-ply high, but everything crashed and burned to the ground in a fiery blaze of What The Ever Living Fuck when she felt the package ripped from her grip. The source of her sudden fall from grace giving his stolen goods a patronizing squeeze and Hermione's brain took a walk on the wild side. 

Yep, he'd reached for her Charmin, and she reached for her knife.

To be sure, it was pink and Swiss.

A key-chain attached weapon that Hermione mostly used to uncork wine, or fix her cheap cat-eyed glasses when the screws went wobbly, but there she was brandishing it under unforgiving fluorescent lights. The ten days of self-isolation scrambling her better sense. The poorly-thought out fight in her winning over rational flight, and the stranger's thick eyebrows lifted to his hairline.

"Seriously?" he muttered, his tone as unimpressed as Hermione was keyed up. "You gonna cut me over toilet paper?"

"You gonna steal toilet paper out of someone's hand without expecting swift justice?"

"It's a Tesco and not the Wild West."

Hermione licked her lips. "Feels about the same today."

"You're mad."

"You're an asshat."

He smirked. "At least I have something to wipe my ass with."

In the brief space during the incredulous pause that Hermione's brain took to process his bastardness- and to form an equally cutting remark, her foe stepped back and left the aisle.

The battle won.

The aloe-moisturized spoils going to the victor.

__________________________________

_ You, fuckface. _

__

_ Thomas Fuckerson. _

__

_ Lord Fuckerton. _

On the shoe-dragging walk up to her tiny warehouse studio apartment, Hermione composed a grade-A list of all the things she'd wished she'd said at "the moment". A four-alarm fire still smoldering deep in her belly nearly twenty minutes past when she'd last laid eyes on her anonymously fuck-named foe. The urge to fight him a part of her being for the foreseeable future and she didn't lift her head until she'd stepped into the freight elevator. The number four punched in by her gloved finger.

A grumble parting her lips, but her eyes went full-on barn owl when someone else waved a hand between the lift doors to swing them back open again.

"You-" she hissed.

"You," the posh thief echoed, his obnoxiously fit arms wrapped around two packs of toilet paper. Two! 

Hermione smashed her finger against the door open button. "Get out!"

"Sure," he flashed a cruel lip curl, "as soon as we get to my floor."

"Wait! Y-you live here?"

"Clearly."

"Oh! Oh, that's just fucking grand isn't it?" she huffed, rolled her eyes.

They stood on opposite ends of the lift for the painfully slow ride up. Hermione sawing her teeth against her lower lip. The vulgar list of names that she'd intended to call him coming to mind when the doors closed, but she had a feeling that he'd refuse to rise to the occasion of offended. Oh, she could squawk and insult and wag a finger in his face, but if she wasn't a piece of lint with the nerve to land on his fancy heather-grey cashmere jumper, she expected that he'd simply carry on with his life. An imperfection found on his tailor-fit outfit the only insult that could ruffle his fine feathers, but as she zeroed in on his monogrammed belt- and recalled how much she hated anyone who monogrammed anything- poor Hermione didn't realize that she was openly eyeing his crotch.

But alas, a clearing of his throat jerked her eyes back up, and Hermione’s cheeks colored into embarrassed.

As luck would have it, a buzzing alarm magically signaled that they'd reached her floor. Her destination arrived to conclude this part of the awkward evening, and Hermione thanked all the gods that she didn't believe in but could occasionally be conveniently fond of.

On the way out, she looked over her shoulder. "I'm not entirely sorry."

"For checking out my junk?" he quipped, mouth twitching. "So, you're just putting it out there that you're both a pervy voyeur  _ and _ prone to threats of violence towards strangers. Nice. Very classy."

"No," Hermione squeaked, feeling her blood pressure rise as she took a step out and turned around. "I'm apologizing for the pulling-the-Swiss-army-knife-on-you part only. That wasn't like me, and it was  _ probably _ wrong. However, it's selfish people like you who are hoarding which makes the rest of us have to use scratchy paper towels on our delicate...areas. For the public good, you should only take as much as you need."

At the phrase delicate areas, his gaze dropped lower than entirely decent.

"Oh, I've always subscribed to the winner’s philosophy of taking more than my share in life."

Hermione stepped back into the lift to keep the door open. "Oh yes,” she drawled, “how philosophical of you. You know, I can't quite remember who said to be a massive wanker is to be a productive member of polite society- was that Socrates or Buddha?"

The more worked up Hermione got, the deeper the thief’s dimple etched into his cheek. Two dimples! One of anything clearly never enough for him. 

“It was Francis Bacon for sure," he deadpanned. "It was right after he said, some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested. Since he was on a roll with that knowledge nugget, he went ahead and added the useful advice that taking your fill of paper goods when presented with the possibility was the wise thing to do during times of uncertainty. And, he made sure to mention that offering some to pretty little angry girls - who draw weapons on you and then want to dive into morality wars after gazing at your cock- is the next wisest action.” 

“You,” Hermione blurted out, squeezing her fists in front of her. “You can go right to hell if you think we’re going to banter.”

The dark-haired stranger’s pupils nearly blacked out the serpentine green in his eyes, and he took a step forward until they both stood on the other side of the doors closing behind them. A muscle clenching in his highly lickable jaw.

“Good. I don’t want to banter either,” he countered, voice low and husky when he evenly explained. “What I want is for you to show me your dumpy little studio, and then to point me to where I can leave you two rolls of my stash so I don’t have to worry about you stealthily seeking out my place and stabbing me in the middle of the night in a blaze of social justice warrior rage.” 

“We're supposed to self-isolate.”

“I promise not to touch you.”

He cocked his head to the side, a fanning of his fingers over his reusable grocery bag ushering her to go on if she dared.

For some ungodly reason, Hermione guffawed, but she let him follow her to her door. No, scratch that. She did know why she led him to the door. That smug, sociopathic sexpot was the most interesting thing to grab her attention in days, he had two rolls of toilet paper with her name on it, and she felt a maddening urge to never back down from him. There wasn’t anything practical at all about welcoming a stranger into her home who didn’t appear to have one shred of common decency available to do the right thing, but there went her key in the lock.

A toss of her groceries by the door to be wiped down later, and she pointed towards the pile. “You can place them there.”

He filled her doorway after she stepped in. An oddly suggestive dip of his index finger into the plastic wrapping, a swivel. A rip. His eyes never leaving hers until she’d backed up her knees to touching against her shabby chic sofa, and he took his time unwrapping her present. His lips softly parted. The stranger-danger screaming scenario just about the weirdest situation that Hermione could imagine, but wasn’t her chest warming up? Her skin flushing away her freckles. 

No sign of self-preserving fear in sight when he held up his offering, and she blinked back at him like a doe-eyed daffy deer on the wrong end of a gun.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

“Wha...okay.”

In an unlike her haze, Hermione plopped down, and he set the paper on top of her console.

The second roll out of the package and resting on his palm a second later. 

“Now, hike your dress up.”

Hermione’s jaw swung open.

“I...I,” she stammered. “No.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re an ass who I don’t need to obediently follow,” Hermione sputtered, definitely not staring at his full lips that he dragged his teeth over,” and I don’t know you.”

He laughed. 

“I don’t particularly want to know you either. As far as I can tell, you seem like an uptight priss with shitty coffee table book tastes, but I bet you’re soaking wet, aren’t you?" He set his grocery bag on the floor, his appraising stare boldly drifting down her body as he peeled his gloves off. "I bet it gets you off that you’ve now called me an ass twice, and you’re not someone who usually gets to go around calling out everyone she wants. Oh no, I bet you stay all tidy and neat and buttoned up in your life full of twee dresses and pretty manners until you occasionally feel like exploding from the maddening effort it takes to remain such a good girl when everybody else is so rude and nasty.”

Hermione swallowed. 

“You don’t know me.”

He shrugged, standing up again and slowly unbuckling his belt. The suggestive pull of leather through trouser loops punctuating his shockingly nonchalant confession. “Like I said, I don’t want to, but I do feel a random compassionate urge to help you release some of that pent up steam.”

“But we can’t touch,” Hermione reminded him, herself, even as her fingertips curled around the hem of her dress. The suggestion he made, ludicrous. Offensive. Unspeakably hot. “It’s all over the news.”

His head tilted. “I already said that I wouldn’t touch you, but I might touch myself.”

Hermione toes curled in her shoes.

“Would you like that, pet?” he bit his lip, unbuttoning. 

Unzipping. 

Unraveling her.

The fabric in Hermione’s hand had bunched into a ball in her palm, and she couldn't say when she’d started gathering it. The passing of time, and understanding of her actions, somehow paling under the glow of frisky anticipation that had her skin feeling hot and not bothered at all as she imagined watching him jerking off to her after she'd not properly been laid in months. Her vibrator well used and running low on batteries. Her constant state of self-comforting horniness running on high, and it didn't help that she’d always had a kink for a guy in control. 

A tall drink of water who’d just casually mention that she was drenched too sounding just about right on her tongue, and he wasn’t wrong.

“Now lay back,” he smoothly ordered, “and pull up your dress.”

"This is such a terrible idea," Hermione mumbled, weakly shaking her head.

There was one long last defiant sigh from her before she closed her eyes, pulled off her gloves and did as told.

A beat of uncomfortable silence hammering her pulse through her veins after she parted her thighs.

A warning to stop before she’d gone too far suddenly blinking behind her eyelids, but then she heard all she needed to keep going.

“Fuck,” he sighed, “you have such a pretty pussy.”

“I haven’t even taken off my knickers yet.”

“True," he hummed, sucking down an inhale, "but that’s how wet you are for me. I can see right through them.”

In the spirit of El Dia de Bad Decisions, Hermione made the mistake of opening her eyes to confirm if he was lying. She glanced down. The sheen on her white cotton pants plain to see, and when she glanced up, he was smirking at her.

He was smirking at her with his cock in his hand.

A shift up on his shaft.

A playful twist at the top, and Hermione pictured herself gagging on all eight inches of him.

His hands guiding her head with harsh hair pulls. His thrusts unapologetic and demanding as he likely belittled her taste in music. A vision hitting her of her spunk-spackled spit dripping down her chin after he gushed into her throat without asking permission first, and a softly moaning Hermione slipped her hand into her underwear. A push of her palm against her clit. A slow-rolling movement and he hadn’t even asked her for it. 

As if under his spell, she’d simply matched him stroke for stroke.

The slick skin already primed for a pumping, and when she curled a finger in and gasped, he tightened his grip. “Look at you,” he murmured, fixating on the space between her thighs. “Look at you screwing yourself for someone you don’t even know.”

Hermione whimpered.

“So tight and filthy and I bet you taste fantastic.”

At each guess, Hermione nodded. Her hand lifting to her mouth to swipe her cum over her bottom lip. A flick of her tongue and she went back for salty seconds.

“Aww, I didn’t even have to ask you to do that,” he purred, belt jiggling as his motions quickened. “Did I? No, you just wanted to raise your hand and suck up- to get all the good girl marks.”

“I hate you,” Hermione raggedly gasped, dipping her hand back down again. Around again. Up and in and feverishly faster and faster. “I-I thought I should remind you about that.”

“Duly noted.”

Hermione laughed.

Her head thrown back. Her free hand palming her tit.

A slight arch in her back, and wasn’t she a sight.

A few curls springing free from her bun, her fingers diddling away on her sticky bun, and it was the most fun she’d had in ages with someone who wasn’t even nice to her. Honestly, it was better that way. For all that Hermione cared, the Gloria Steinem book on her shelf might have visibly frowned before tossing down a protest sign, because Hermione couldn’t remember the last time that her skin tingled like this. The last time she’d felt her nipples perk up before touching them, but there she went wringing them into pink and painful. A twist. A long pull to the point of too much. A pulsing squeeze that matched her fingers below and she was already so close.

“You gonna cum for me?” her stranger asked, breathing hard. 

“I’m gonna cum for me,” Hermione whimpered.

It was his turn to laugh.

The most unexpected sound rolling over her body that made her cunt squeeze an S.O.S on her knuckles, but there was no saving Hermione when he watched her like that. There was only diving under and holding her breath. There was only a whimper-cracking orgasm bending her back when she stared into his eyes. An endless moan spilling free from her mouth to accompany his grunt across the room, and she thrilled to the sound of him wanting her. The last few slides of skin on skin draining him dry, and who wouldn’t appreciate taking part in a debasing symphony played just for two? 

As Hermione went limp against her sofa, she greedily watched him squeeze out the last few pearls that dripped obscenely off his long fingers.

A puddle forming on her floor.

A splatter of semen landing right by the fringed apple-patterned rug that Hermione’s nan knit for her, but she had toilet paper now to pick it up.

A lazy laugh popped out of her at that thought, and Hermione pushed her dress back down again. The upcoming wave of shame ready to hit at any moment after her self-shagging shenanigans, but he was grinning at her. A flash of pearly-white playful, and did she hate him?

It didn’t feel like it so much now.

But then again, she was satisfied jelly in lady form, and he was ripping a single piece of TP off to dab himself dry. The display oddly humanizing for a slippery snake who’d snuck into her home. A nervy neighbor who buckled up again without making her promises, but she could play nice enough for both of them. 

“What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

“Um, well, thanks for stopping in, Tom.”

“It was my pleasure,” he chuckled, unable to help himself, “and I’m up in 9A if you ever want to not touch again.”

On the way out, Tom didn’t step into the role of a Prince Charming who felt the need to swear that he’d never seen anyone so beautiful, but he did leave a whole bag of Charmin.

A prize worth a bit of bashfulness, and maybe one day Hermione might summon some.

But not that night.


End file.
